Shifting Perspective
by Manon
Summary: Courfeyrac learns some things about his friend.
1. first glance

[Author's Note: This is a fragment. I will probably expand it in future, but I would love to know what you all think so far.]  
  
Finally I'm the only one left in the room, except for Grantaire, who sits looking battered. On my way to the door I pause to rest a hand on his shoulder. He shows no sign that he feels it.  
  
"Give it up, can't you?" I say gently. "You're not doing yourself any favors."  
  
"Then I've something in common with the rest of creation."  
  
"What do you expect him to say, Grantaire?"  
  
"Expect?" He laughs shortly, looking up at me. "I expect nothing. I'm seldom disappointed."  
  
"Then what is it you want?"  
  
I shouldn't have asked that. I've cut too deep; his eyes flick away, staring out the window. A look of real hurt, and seeing it, I recognize it; recognize the half-scornful, half-heartbroken smile he wore a moment ago. I've seen both before. It is the face of a man in love.  
  
I don't want to know this. This is my friend, a man I've known for years, drunk with, fought with, bothered grisettes with. If he harbors a guilty passion, I don't want to know about it.  
  
"Does it matter?" he says tiredly.  
  
"Doesn't it?"  
  
"No. Not really."  
  
It occurs to me that I've never actually known how old he is. About my own age, I'd assumed, but watching the sharp clean-shaven face, hearing the tremor in his voice-- he must be younger than he lets on. Perhaps that explains what I saw just now; boys are given to hero-worship. Certainly it's a more reassuring theory than the other. So I squeeze his shoulder lightly. "Let me walk you home."  
  
"Who says I'm going home?"  
  
"Well, if you'd rather stay here and brood, I'll leave you to it."  
  
It works. Grimacing, he gets to his feet and follows me to the door. 


	2. doubletake

The night is clear, and cool for early summer. The soft breeze blowing along the Rue des Grès seems to clear his head a bit, and he shakes off my steadying arm. "I'm fine, damn it. Quit carrying on like a doting aunt." 

"All right, you're fine." 

"Don't bloody _humor_ me, Courfeyrac." 

I hold up my hands. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

Grantaire snorts, and turns away, not waiting to see if I follow him or not. And perhaps I've misjudged him today, for though he moves with the aggressive gait of the borderline drunk, there is no trace of a stumble as we walk to the corner. 

Perhaps -- the thought occurs to me, in another unexpected flash -- perhaps he's never so far gone as I assume him to be. Perhaps I don't know him nearly as well as I think I do. 

In the next moment everything happens at once. There's a sudden, ominous scuffling from an alleyway; a dark shape bolts across the street, inches in front of us; somewhere close by, a woman shrieks and is abruptly silenced, and I waste precious seconds in looking around for her. 

It's only a dog, a damned stray, at least as startled as we are. It skulks beside a doorstep, yapping sharply as though to tell us to watch where we're going, and then lopes off into the shadows. 

Grantaire is leaning against the wall of the nearest building, looking resolutely amused, if a little green. "Hell," he says. 

And then I know. 


	3. revision

"You--" I begin. 

"What?" She pushes away from the wall, digging both hands in her pockets ostentatiously. "Don't think it made off with anything." 

But I'm too stunned to laugh. "That was you." 

"What was?" 

She's good; she's very, very good. Even now, I doubt for a moment-- but it fits too well. The boyish, beardless face; the odd fineness of the hands; the unexpected fits of melancholy. The yearning looks at Enjolras! 

It takes me a moment to think what to say. "I won't tell anyone. It just-- I heard you. I wouldn't have known, else." 

"Well, of _course_ you heard me, you're not deaf." 

"You know what I mean." 

"Yes," she says gruffly. "And you can stop staring at my shirt. I promise you there's nothing to see." Doesn't even blush, which is more than I can say for myself. 

"I wasn't-- I was only wondering how I didn't see before." 

She gives me a disgusted look. "You didn't see because I took the damnedest pains that you _shouldn't_ see, now will you shut up?" 

"Mademoiselle--" 

"O good God!" She gives me a shove, and swings around to start up the street again before I've got my balance back. 

"Well, I don't know your name." 

She laughs, familiar hoarse laughter. "Don't you, now?" 

"Marie," I guess, jogging after her. 

"Ha!" 

"Sophie." 

"Be damned to your Sophie." 

"Therese." 

"You sound like the miller's daughter," she mocks me. "I don't want your firstborn, monsieur. Give it up." 

"All right." I've caught up to her now. "What's your name, then?" 

Quick as a flash the bony hand knots in my shirtfront, so sudden that I stumble and nearly fall. 

"My name's Grantaire," the girl breathes, "you damn' fool." 

And turns and walks away. 


End file.
